Anguish is a Metaphor for His Storm
by Rajata Sashi
Summary: Tis about our lovely Kuja. Short. Simple. Odd. Although, be warned; it doesn't really fit the game. Flames accepted.


Di$claimer: Nope. I don't own Kuja or Final Fantasy 9. That belongs to the almighty Squaresoft. ;-;

_**Author's Note: Meh. 'Tis about Kuja. It really doesn't fit the game at all. It's more like... Kuja did something close to destroying the planet, but not...? Eh, whatever. I wrote it a while ago. shrug I don't really like it all that much, however, it is the only Kuja thing I've written that I -like-. So. Um. Enjoy or something.**_

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Ah, the rain. He loved the rain; it was like tears crashing down from the very heaven's above, with a sound so peaceful, so _deafening_ that it could either drive a man mad or send him into a blissful sleep. In fact, it (the rain) was about the only thing that he _did_ love in this miserable, heart-wrenching world... A smile worked itself onto his odd, porcelain face. Miserable, heart wrenching? No, no. That was not _the world_.

That was _him_.

He, who lived everyday of his life in self-pity and sorrow and hate. (Nowadays, he did, anyway. That was certainly _not_ what he did in the past.) Yes, he, who deserved not to live a peaceful, serene, _happy_ life; but to suffer, apparently. Of course, what was more fitting than that for a monster like himself? He laughed. Well, _wasn't_ he a monster? He deserved it. His laughter, it continued; echoing off of the pale walls.

They say that too much time in isolation can make one go mad. As can bottling up one's emotions for too long a time period. His laughter stopped suddenly, and he choked; tears filling those navy blue eyes.

"Mad, indeed." Kuja muttered to himself, the pride less tears held back. He leaned against the window frame, scanning the outside world (it was so alien to him now; he really did regret letting time pass him so), his silver, feather-like hair falling around his way-too-pale-face. (_It was sickeningly pallid_.) Then, as if out of the frigid air, came an epiphany of voices; his eyes shutting in agony. (Though it's only cause was _himself_.)

_"How could you? Why would you _do_ such a thing...? What could have possibly motivated you to... Kuja... why? _Why

"I..." he trailed off, running a hand through his silk-like hair. "I thought... I _thought_ it was the right thing to do..."

Perhaps not.

He cringed and sank to the floor, his back against the wall that seemed to almost mock him. (The mask was gone.) He drew his knees to his chest. (There is wonder; what happened to that poetic, graceful, _prideful_ man? Simply a facade?)

An angel on one shoulder, a devil on the other; inner demons (maybe 'tis guilt) truly are terrible things to fight against.

Terrible, indeed.

He sobbed, his shallow pride now broken (he wishes it was there in the first place) and outside thunder boomed, and rain fell. He _felt_ the lightening (perhaps now he truly _was_ mad) as it danced across the dark clouds. His tears fell, he sobbed; and he compared himself to the storm.

Heaven's pain, Heaven's tears; his pain, his tears. Sobs echoed, just as the thunder did, and his eyes might as well have been the lightening (they were bright enough; _or so it seemed_).

_Pain is an addiction._

Insanity was truly a very complex thing, he supposed. (Because he was _aware_ of it?) As was guilt. His conscience would never forgive him; never let him forget. It was raining on that night, as well. No... it was _storming_. (_Thundering like a heartbeat_.)

Was murder really such a heinous crime? He had thought it was for a good cause, at the time. (Guess not.) However, Kuja obviously had not accounted for the price that must be paid. (Agony and pain; _lovely_.)

His (thunder-like) sobs had by now ceased, and he uncurled himself. His navy painted orbs stared emptily (_so lifeless now_) at the ceiling. The thunder's sound waves reached his ears and the lightning's flash danced momentarily on the wall across from him. (_Like dancers of some mock-heaven_...)

A soft, gentle sigh escaped the (suddenly, eerily) now quiet man. Though, his mind reeled. Inside, he fought his demons; _he fought himself_.

Though, one would wonder if he ever truly won that battle.

"_Insanity is such a paradox,_" he thought, closing his eyes.

**(End)**


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